Rue de Lappe was well-known for its feverish atmosphere at night; a place where sparks were guaranteed to fly. Tucked away in a working-class neighbourhood in the east of Paris, the street was home to dozens of small dance halls, like the Petit-Jardin. The band at the Petit-Jardin was one of the best. Last week, the music had kept playing until the morning light. The young seamstresses were getting ready as they waited for their dance partners, most of them railroaders or factory men, to come back from work. They’d dined together near the Tuileries, just outside the big fashion houses, and told their beaus where to meet them for a wild Friday night. Some of them would don their Schiaparelli-style hats, others strings of pearls. They had to be beautiful tonight, chic à la française, even though secretly they might have preferred to look like Greta Garbo or Katharine Hepburn. They flicked through copies of Vogue to find their inspiration; as seamstresses, they had to be in the know about these things and always be looking their best when they went out. They hoped that the group wouldn’t be playing too much of that old-timey music, they wanted to dance and enjoy an evening with their men. That’s what Paris was all about, that was how life was lived in the City of Light.
The flashing neon lights glinted off the moist cobblestones outside the Petit-Jardin. The Parisians waited their turn to go in under the rain, sheltering as best they could under umbrellas or the awnings of packed café terraces. They shoved forward, eager to drink a glass of Illico wine and get closer to the accordion music they could hear coming from inside. Finally, it was their turn to buy their bronze token from the booth. The little disc was stamped with the name of the ball, and on the other side it read, “Good for one dance.” Halfway through the night, the manager would pass through the dance floor to demand the tokens back: “Hand over the coins!” A few moments later, the Petit-Jardin was full. Women talked and joked while the men argued about politics, impatient to get close to their girlfriends on the dance floor. At the Petit-Jardin, they danced to everything: there was accordion waltz, of course, but you might get java, paso doble and tango too.
The crowd heard the sound of a ritornello starting, and a clamour went up over the Petit-Jardin. Couples formed and waltzed hand-in-hand. Bodies relaxed as they listened to the cover of Edith Paif’s Bal dans la rue, capturing what all these women were feeling.
Tonight, there's a ball in my street.
Never before have I seen
Such a joyful crowd.There's a ball in my street,
And, in the little bistro
Where joy is flowing,
Seven musicians perched on a bench,
Play for the lovers,
They come here in pairs,
The laughter's on their lips, dancing eye to eye.
Tonight, there's a ball in my street.
The tempo rose up, and the vocalist sang at the top of her sultry voice. A seamstress was spinning like a top in the middle of the dance floor, as a man looked on and clapped to encourage the musicians. The accordionist stood up to dance as he played; the trumpet player was sweating like a boxer, and the bassist bobbed his head. The atmosphere was jumping. The cover of Bal dans ma rue was over. The women were exhausted from their dancing, applauding ecstatically. Other couples came together to slow dance to La Vie en Rose.
At first light, outside the Petit-Jardin dance hall, prostitutes were moping about under a fine mist of rain. They awaited a client; a lone man with the means to seduce them, a man looking for something else. They’d been there all night, listening to the dull echo of the music. The patrons of the Petit-Jardin had not yet begun to filter out; they were still dancing, always dancing. The girls were wary of going after clients too openly, not wanting to upset the febrile atmosphere of the Rue de Lappe, where it always felt like a brawl might break out any second. They must remain discreet, distant. Finally, a couple stepped out into the night air. The ladies of the night kept their eyes peeled. They glanced at one another, the air turning murky as the night came to an end. Two other couples came out and turned to make their way home. Then a man emerged unaccompanied. The prostitutes looked him up and down. He looked like a catch. Whatever he needed, they’d be happy to provide. The man hesitated and took out a cigarette. That moment of hesitation said it all; those were the few seconds he needed to decide which of these rare pearls would be taking him back to her dingy little flat. “I’m here for you, my love,” cackled one woman, making the first move. The man grinned. A flash of lightning tore the sky in silence. The man threw his butt in the gutter and walked over to the woman, who took him in her arms as if she were greeting an old flame.
Alan Alfredo Geday